


The Warg and The Warlock

by ChristinaS412



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Drabble, Enemies to Friends, F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, graphic description of ned starks death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 15:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20472965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristinaS412/pseuds/ChristinaS412
Summary: A couple notes: For starters I aged them up (roughly 18-20) although I guess you could read this and interpret their age as canon too lol. If you have any questions about the magical set up of Westeros please defer to the footnotes at the end of the fic! also I realize that I basically plagarized that entire scene from s2e2 as well as the PotC scene where Jack & Will fight for the first time - sue me. it's 2am and I felt like doing a Got x PotC x Magical AU mashup!In any case enjoy this absolute shit show, and let me know if you want to see a part two!





	The Warg and The Warlock

**Author's Note:**

> A couple notes: For starters I aged them up (roughly 18-20) although I guess you could read this and interpret their age as canon too lol. If you have any questions about the magical set up of Westeros please defer to the footnotes at the end of the fic! also I realize that I basically plagarized that entire scene from s2e2 as well as the PotC scene where Jack & Will fight for the first time - sue me. it's 2am and I felt like doing a Got x PotC x Magical AU mashup! 
> 
> In any case enjoy this absolute shit show, and let me know if you want to see a part two!

_This wasn’t happening_, she thought desperately repeating the words over and over again like an endless broken prayer. _Her father wasn’t a blood traitor. He couldn’t be_. And yet his sword severed his head just as cleanly as any other guilty man. The roar of the cheering crowd rang distantly in her mind, too focused on the cold dread that flooded her system. Only Joffrey’s childish voice kept her from falling onto the cobblestone street, his thin lips perking up in a sinister smile when his beady little eyes caught sight of her below. “Guards, bring that girl to me!”

Without thought Arya took off through the crowd of onlookers, the fear that had curled into the pit of her stomach fueled the adrenaline coursing through her veins. _Not today_, Syrio had once told her when she was little. _The God of Death would not get her too. Not today_. A part of her considered shifting but the risk out in the open was too high. If someone found out what she really was it would only make matters worse. And so, she ran, her heartbeat echoing in her head and her lungs rasping for air. Through alleyways and over hovels searching for somewhere to hide, hen she came across a street with few people lined with shops on either end.

There was an inn and a small brothel, but as she continued on the shops became forges and the heavy smell of fire grew. Hanging low and thick in the air and leaving the rooftops painted black with coal dust. A few mutts lounged outside the entrances, watching her with little interest as they guarded the swords on display. Arya was close to giving up when a flash of gold armor at one of the alleyways ahead forced her to duck into small shop.

The embers of a fire glowed in the forge in the center, warming the room and allowing her eyes to adjust to the low light. Both walls were lined with various weapons, the craftsmanship of which stole her breath. Stepping around one anvil Arya froze when she came across an old man slumped in the corner. Afraid to scare him she carefully reached out with her leather boot, kicking him lightly until she was satisfied that he wouldn’t wake up any time soon. With that she turned back to the shop, testing out the weight of a few swords before spotting a beautiful curved dagger with a black and gold enameled hilt.

Twisting it skillfully between her fingers Arya nearly smiled for the first time all day when the curtain hanging in front of the shop lifted, flooding the forge with light and bringing with it the clatter of chainmail outside. Flinching she dropped the dagger and pressed herself down into the corner, watching as a young man let the curtain drop behind him.

_He's tall_, Arya thought idly, _almost as tall as the mountain from her angle in the corner_. Stepping over the old man on the floor she heard him chuckle darkly before picking up an iron to stoke the fire. The sudden flare in the simmering fire lit his face in an orange hue, outlining the bare muscles of his shoulders in the shadows. _Strong too_, she thought as her cheeks flushed pink and she dropped her gaze. There, in the dirt, the hilt of the dagger she had dropped glinted brightly in the firelight.

The stranger had seen it too, stooping down to pick it up, his eyebrows knit in confusion as he turned the knife over in his hands. “Who’s there?” He called out, his voice low and threatening though she could tell by his gaze that the fire beside him had left him night blind. He couldn't see her, not yet. Carefully she pulled herself up, gripping the hilt of the closest sword on the wall behind her before stepping forward.

“What’re you doing here?” He questioned, eyebrow raised in curiosity.

But Arya didn’t have time for explanations, “The nearest gate, where is it.”

“The nearest gate?” He repeated, confused, “How would I know?”

Every second she spent here with him gave the guards a chance to find her. She needed to find a place to shift and get out of the city before that happened. Frustrated Arya raised the sword in her hand, pointing it towards him as she stepped closer toward the door. “Just pretend I was never here,” she replied.

“you’re the one they’re hunting, aren’t you? the missing Stark girl” Arya stiffened at that, stopping to swivel around and face him. The clangor of more guards passing by the shop stirred her adrenaline, they were getting closer.

“Have we met before?” She wondered, maybe he had been in the crowd with the others cheering on her father’s beheading. The memory made her sick knowing it wasn't just some nightmare from old nan's stories.

He, on the other hand, seemed content with keeping her here. A small smile playing at the corner of his lips despite his otherwise grim expression, at her question, “No, I think I’d remember that.”

“I’m leaving,” she stated annoyed that she had even let herself spend this much time talking to some stupid boy. Crossing the room, she was almost at the door when a calloused hand closed around her wrist. The spark that traveled up her arm at his touch was instantaneous, if he felt it too he hid his surprise well. 

“You leave now and they’ll kill you,” he muttered behind her.

“I’m not afraid of them…”

A chuckle rumbled low behind her at that, Arya could almost see him smiling. _Smug bastard_. “You should be.”

Letting out a huff turned to look at him, taking note of the hammer he held in one hand she raised an eyebrow, “you want to kill me first is that it? For the sake of the King?” It wouldn’t be the first time some little shit murdered someone else in the name of heroism for a dead king. _Kings Landing really was a shit city_, she thought sourly.

“What? No.” Nose scrunched in disgust as his blue eyes stared at her incredulously under a fringe of black hair, “I don’t give a shit about that dead drunk old bastard. I don't want you to get hurt.” _It was a shame really_, she mused, he was by far the best-looking man she had met since she had moved south. 

Realizing his sincerity Arya’s lips thinned into a hard line, raising the sword in her left hand she lashed out, forcing him to drop her wrist and block the attack. "I can take care of myself," But before she could step away to make her point, he had already raised his hammer to block her next attack. _Oh, he’s good_, she smiled to herself as she twisted the sword comfortably in her hand. But not quite good enough, she had Syrio to thank for that, disarming him with ease she raised an eyebrow challengingly.

Without second thought he grabbed a sword from the wall, seemingly intent on winning against her. _Men_, she reflected wistfully. Hotpie had spent three days sulking when she had practiced with him in the cellars of the Redkeep. 

“Who makes all of these?” Arya asked curiously, as she sidestepped one of his jabs. Though she had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t the old man still soundly asleep in the corner.

“I do,” he retorted as if she lacked all common sense.

Rolling her eyes Arya snorted, “must get a lot of practice in then.”

“Three hours every day with Master Mott, why?” he wondered blocking another attack with the broad side of his sword. Gods, at that rate he really was hopeless.

Laughing at that she shook her head, “you should find yourself a girl instead.” Too caught up in her own amusement Arya didn’t expect him to drop his weapon and barrel into her, forcefully pressing her up against the wall in the shadows as a guard stopped right outside of the shop. 

“Maybe I already have m’ lady,” He replied, shooting her an amused smile as one hand covered her mouth to keep her from retorting. Instead she glowered at him until the guard left. “Why do they want you anyway?”

Certain that she was no longer in danger Arya kneed him forcefully in the crotch, enjoying the slight satisfaction of watching him bend over in pain as his hand fell from her lips. Shrugging she stooped to pick up the dagger. “I don’t know…”

“I-I thought they were after you,” He coughed slightly, wincing as the pain slowly subsided. “Is it because of your father or because you’re a shifter?”

Grey eyes snapped towards him at that, eyebrows knit with confusion. “I’m not a shifter.” The last of the noble shapeshifters had left to live across the sea in Braavos a thousand years ago to worship the God of death after the first kings of the seven kingdoms made it a sport to hunt shifters for their pelts. 

“Yeah, you are. What, you think I’m as stupid as the rest of them?” He asked straightening up again though his hand still rubbed at the ache in his crotch.

“Stupider, all trueborn Starks are wargs everyone knows that,” She retorted raising her wrist to show him the jagged _W_ branded on the inside of her wrist. W, for Warg, because all true born Starks had been gifted with the sight since the age of the first men. Only, he was right, her branding had been a lie and she hated herself for it. No matter how many times she had tried to force herself to warg, she would never be able to see through someone else’s eyes the way her brothers and sister did. So, she had buried the truth, practicing her shifting under the silver rays of moonlight that filtered through the leaves in Winterfell’s Godswood.

Scoffing the man shook his head, “Yeah, doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a shifter.”

“I’m not,” Arya insisted, anger getting the best of her.

“Then where’s your little pet?” It unnerved her how easily he had picked apart her lie.

Shifting from one foot to the other she bit her lip, “I don’t have one…I lost it.”

“You’re telling me you’re the only warg in the world who lost the ability to see through an animals’ eyes?” He asked clearly amused when he realized he had caught her.

Arya hesitated, still worrying her lip as she finally relented, “No one can know.”

He seemed surprise that she had conceded, watching her carefully for another moment before his eyes fell to the floor. “They won’t, not from me.” Glancing around the small shop he poked his head out from underneath the cloth door cover. “Come on,” he motioned grabbing an old ragged cloak from a hook near the door to throw over her as they stepped out into the street.

“Where are we going?” Arya asked quietly, trying hard not to focus on how the fabric stunk of sweat and iron or the fact that he had grabbed her hand and hadn't let go.

“The gate, you can’t stay here. There’ll already be enough hell to pay when my master wakes up.” He explained guiding her back through twisting alleyways and side streets. Together they slipped through the city unnoticed, silent except for his occasional mumbling. At first Arya had chalked the murmurs it up to fear, if anyone caught them, he would die by the sword just as much as she would.

Only when they finally stopped just shy of the mud gate inside a small hovel did Arya notice the feint yellow orange lines following the planes of his bare hands. “Do you still have the sword?” he questioned, letting go of her palm and motioning for her to give it to him. Slipping it out of her belt she watched as he balanced the hilt masterfully between both hands and began to mumble again, “Mīsagon m' riñnykeā se dohaeragon zȳhon sȳrī, sir se va moriot.” It was Valyrian, that much she knew, having learned about the history of the language and its use in binding spells. She was about to ask where he had learned when he interrupted her with a rushed breath as he handed the sword back, "My master taught me." His words brooked no argument, despite the fact that Arya knew it was a lie just as much as her branding. Only highborns were gifted with magic. 

Mīsagon m' riñnykeā se dohaeragon zȳhon sȳrī, sir se va moriot 

Turning back to watch the guards at the gate he paused for a moment, pulling her attention back to the present as the guards changed out, "there, you should have just enough time to get through." 

“Wait, You’re not coming with me?” For some reason she had thought he meant to take her all the way back home to Winterfell, so they would both be safe. 

Straightening the hood of her cloak for her with a grim look, he shook his head, “I’m afraid I can’t leave with you, not yet.” 

“But you could come North, my brother Robb, he’d protect you.” It was meant to be an offer, but it sounded like a plea when her voice threatened to crack with fear.

“You said you could take care of yourself,” He reminded her.

Realizing he wasn’t going to give up Arya let her shoulders drop in resignation, “I don’t even know your name…”

That seemed to take him by surprise , as his eyes locked on hers, “Gendry,” he finally conceded.

“Arya,” she replied with a soft smile, “though some like to call my Arry.”

“I like Arya,” he murmured lowly, still staring at her in slight awe. 

“I’m sure you do,” Arya laughed, peering up at him in amusement. Straightening her shoulders, she felt her resolve strengthen. No matter how much she wanted to stay he had risked both their lives getting her this far, and the thought of her family waiting back home brought tears to her eyes. “Goodbye Gendry.”

“Goodbye Arya- “

Quickly she rose on her tiptoes, cutting him off to press a soft kiss to his lips “-and thank you, for helping me.”

“You-you’re welcome,” Gendry stuttered, eyes still blown wide by the kiss. Satisfied at his reaction Arya spun on her heels, sword hidden beneath her cloak as she made her way toward the gate. Stopping once more to step into a bath house she kept her face turned down in the steam of the showers, concentrating on shifting until her hair lightened and her pale northern skin had tanned and begun to fester with blisters. It wasn't much, just enough to earn her safe passage out of the city. When she finally reached the Kingswood Arya left all but the magic sword behind, savoring the wind that swept through her pelt from the coastline. She wouldn't be afraid, not like this, when men that saw her cowered in the shadows of the moonlight and travelers called her the she-wolf from the seventh hell. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo as promised - in this au the first ceremony is a rite of passage into adulthood where a childs magical abilities begin to develop and form for the first time. Only highborn/noble families have magical capabilities. 
> 
> \- if you enjoyed this please don't forget to leave a kudos & comment! let me know if you'd like a part two, and what parts of this magical au you'd like me to explore further!


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